


Alexithymia

by sunshinewinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel In Love, Castiel and Dean in Love, Cuddle or Die Curse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cursed Dean, Curses, Dean Realizes His Feelings For Castiel, Dean Talks About Feelings, Dean is Bad at Feelings, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Fluffy Ending, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Protective Castiel, Remix, Romance, Schmoop, Sweet Castiel, True Love, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Witch Curses, cuddle or die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinewinchesters/pseuds/sunshinewinchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean really, really hates witches. So of course, it's only natural that he gets cursed by one in the worst possible way. Castiel is the only one who can break the curse and help Dean learn the lesson the witch intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alexithymia

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dean Winchester Does Not Cry During Sex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/912042) by [skylinehorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylinehorizon/pseuds/skylinehorizon). 



> This is a remix of the fic 'Dean Winchester Does Not Cry During Sex' by the lovely and talented skylinehorizon. This fic was written with explicit permission from the original author. I strongly recommend you go read the original fic- it's a billion times better and definitely one of my favorites! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Beta'd by the best beta to have ever existed: CrackshotKate! I love you girl!!! You are the most kickass editor ever!! Thank you so much for your lovely beta skills and support!

Alexithymia (noun): An inability to describe emotions in a verbal manner.

***

In his lifetime, Dean Winchester had experienced a lot of very freaky shit. He’d been in the weirdest situations and had to do some of the weirdest things, all at the hands of either shapeshifters, demons, angels, fairies, and even an archangel pretending to be a Trickster. But this, by far, tops the list. The supernatural creature they’re trying to gank at the moment? A witch. Yeah, that’s right. Witches completely outdo even Gabriel for the top title of ‘Creatures Who Have Fucked Up Dean’s Life In Weird-Ass Ways’. 

“Sonovabitch! Sam! Do you have any more poppyseed bullets?” Dean shouts at his brother from across the living room of the witch’s house. Sam is no help; he’s too busy wrestling with the female witch’s boyfriend or warlock, or whatever the hell he is. Dean’s cursing under his breath as he looks futilely around the room, as if in search for extra ammo, seeing as his gun is already out of witch-killing bullets. The female laughs, her voice a high-pitched cackle, and sinks into a crouch, eyeing him with clever eyes.  
“Poppyseed? You hunters really never do anything creative, do you?” She asks conversationally. Dean hears someone fire off a round, and the older Winchester turns his head just in time to watch the he-witch’s body crumple to the ground in a heap, blood bubbling up from a hole right over his heart.  
“Nice shot, Sammy,” he congratulates dryly, mostly just to piss off this seemingly impervious witch who is really starting to get on his nerves.  
“Not me,” Sam looks confused as he picks himself up, panting, eyes darting over to the figure standing behind him. 

Castiel lowers his gun, stance relaxed, and then fluidly loads in another clip of poppy seed bullets. Dean sighs heavily in relief; Cas must’ve heard the last-minute prayer for help Dean had sent his way. The angel trains the gun intently on the witch’s heart, but she only has eyes for Dean at the moment. “You killed him,” the witch says, her painfully matter-of-fact tone sending a chill down his spine. Dean shrugs blithely, looking back over his shoulder at Cas to give him a thankful smile before facing the witch again.  
“Yeah, we did. You’re next, bitch,” he taunts. The witch’s eyes snap up to meet Cas’, and Dean tenses. Something about her knowing gaze makes him nervous, no matter how outnumbered she is. He doesn’t like the way she seems to be reading Cas’ mind. A charged moment passes with the witch’s eyes boring into Cas’ skull, the angel staring back guardedly but with a hint of doubt beneath the surface. Dean’s become better at reading Cas’ emotions from his eyes alone than loading a gun in the dark, and the uncertainty he sees there is unsettling.

The witch is a few years younger than Sam, probably twenty seven or twenty eight, and pretty -- well, in a psycho-bitch sort of way. Her lean but curvy figure, waist-long blonde hair and full rose bud lips would be inviting in any other situation, but not now. Dean’s wary as hell about her lack of reaction to her boyfriend’s death. She didn’t lash out in rage, didn’t threaten or attempt to kill any of them, didn’t even seem that surprised. Another jolt of anxiety shoots down Dean’s spine and he tries to shake off the uneasy feeling, but all it does is grow as the seconds pass by in silence. The witch finally looks back to Dean, her blue eyes suddenly arrogant with recently acquired knowledge. 

“You’re making the same mistake he did,” she purrs, voice saturated with something that sends Dean’s skin crawling. “I’ll help you out. You can either quit trying to be so stubborn and pushing away the truth, or die, just like my boyfriend did.” Before Dean can even attempt to understand what her cryptic statement is supposed to mean, the witch raises a hand with deft speed, splaying her fingers wide. Her open palm faces Dean and though he can’t see anything happen, he feels the force of something deep-rooted and nasty seize his body. With a strangled noise he sinks to his knees, body spasming from the force enveloping every bone inside of him. He convulses on the floor, body thrashing as whatever the witch did to him takes hold. He is struggling for breath, his heart slamming a violent rhythm against his ribs. Seconds later, his body falls limp as the weight of the magic finally claims him. An onslaught of blackness bores into his eyes and yanks him into unconsciousness.

 

***

Dean comes to abruptly just minutes later. Bright, jagged bolts of pain stab through the back of his eyes and strike through his head, and the hunter squeezes his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to ward it off. He feels a hand on his shoulder, the indistinct but deep voice of his brother right beside him, and the more gravelly voice of Castiel, also close by. The pain subsides for a second, just enough that Dean feels strong enough to open his eyes, and reluctantly he does. Sam is leaning over him worriedly, looking down in concern while speaking to Cas. Their voices pull into focus. Dean sits up, wincing as he does so, feeling like he might throw up and gritting his teeth to restrain the urge. 

“ --cursed. We will need to watch him closely until we can figure out what the witch has done,” Castiel explains to a frowning Sam.

“I’m fine, get off of me,” Dean grumbles, embarrassed that he passed out like that. Sam removes his hand and straightens to stand beside Cas, then extends a hand down to help Dean up. Dean takes it, pulling himself to his feet, and rolls his shoulders back, squaring them as he tries to regain some semblance of control. He feels pretty shitty, to be honest, but he’s been through much worse than some stupid curse. He’s not about to admit how much he’d actually really like to lay back down and not get up. Ever.  
“Cursed? What the hell do you mean I’m cursed?” Dean demands, looking from Sam to Cas for an explanation. Both of them have poorly-concealed panic inscribed in every line of their face; Sam’s brows are creased in his usual puppy dog look, while Cas’ eyes are soft, the downward tilt of the corners of his mouth giving him away. Dean wishes they wouldn’t look so anxious; he’s been to Hell, dammit. He can take some dumb witch. 

“We believe you have been cursed, Dean. The witch seems to have have acted in revenge for my killing of her partner. Based on what she said, I believe the curse has something to do with me,” Cas answers him, voice calm. Dean isn’t fooled though. He can see how bemused he is, not understanding his role in Dean’s curse. A twinge in his stomach tells Dean he doesn’t want to try and consider that part. The witch had said something about truth, right? Dean isn’t going to down play it -- he sure as hell ain’t one to be all share-y care-y with his feelings. The longer he dwells on the thought, the more uncomfortable he becomes. 

“We can figure it out later. Did you kill the bitch?” Dean asks, looking around the room for her corpse. He tries to ignore the feeling that he’d swallowed a handful of broken glass. Sam shakes his head regretfully, still eyeing Dean as if he can derive the witch’s intent just through looking at his brother long enough.  
“No. After she cursed you she just disappeared,” Sam says, sounding more than a little pissed about her getting away. Dean huffs, glaring at his empty gun on the ground and cursing their shitty luck. He stoops down down to retrieve it, only for the sharp pain in his gut to intensify, twisting and writhing, slicing at his insides viciously. A low gasp pushes its way out of his lips and it grinds his teeth together, mashing his eyes shut as he fights off the cutting pain.  
“Dean? You alright?” Sam asks, peering down at him in panic. Castiel is looking at him with something akin to bewilderment -- a deep look of concentration, like he’s trying to connect some kind of dots.  
“I don’t know how to help,” Castiel stuttered in alarm, “I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

Dean forces himself to stand straight, not doubled over in rapidly escalating pain, and bites down hard on the inside of his cheek as he looks from Cas to Sam. “Nothing’s wrong. Let’s get out of here, we can hunt down the bitch later. Until then, I think we all deserve a few drinks.” Dean declares, mustering a smile to try and ease their distress. Sam raises an eyebrow in disbelief, appearing to be about to ask Dean if he’s sure he feels up to it when the older hunter is clearly in pain, but a challenging look from Dean stops him.  
“Alright, yeah, let’s go get something to drink. But then we should really start doing some research on the curse,” Sam agrees, pushing the hair sticking to his face from all the sweat behind his ear. Dean smiles wider, slapping Sam on the back, and starts to head out for the Impala, Sam and Cas at his side. He feels Cas’ gaze on him, intense and thoughtful, and it’s making him feel antsy. He just wants to forget the pain and the curse for a bit, so why does Cas seem so hell-bent on killing his buzz with all of his angst? Dean sighs, about to tell Cas to let it go and brighten up, when another wave of pain rips through him, like knives tearing around his chest and lower abdomen. Lightning feels like it’s striking his head and for a second he fears he may black out right then and there, but somehow he holds it together. 

Dean manages to drag himself into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut just in time to ride out the spell, clenching his jaw, tendons straining as he fights to keep all evidence of pain from being displayed. It’s agony, coming from the inside of him, everywhere at once. The pain’s starting to decline when Sam folds himself into the car to ride shotgun, Cas sitting in the back, and Dean forces himself to start his baby, hands so tight around the steering wheel his knuckles are bone white. He’s holding his breath, knowing if he doesn’t some sort of pathetic cry will make its way out of his mouth. The pain is dying down, at least for now, but Dean’s not stupid enough to think it’s permanent. So far, it’s been returning quicker and quicker, each time the intensity ratcheting up an ungodly amount. How much longer until it’s unbearable?  
“Fucking witches and their fucking curses,” Dean growls under his breath as he starts to pull out onto the street, taking deep, steadying breaths as his way of recovering. Sam and Cas are both staring at him. Sam looks suspicious, while a quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Dean Cas looking even more like he is frustrated at his inability to improve the situation, if the creases between his eyebrows indicate anything. Dean ignores them both, keeping his eyes on the road as he accelerates, turning on the radio. A Led Zeppelin song blares and Dean turns it up, trying to block out the steady pain that is lingering in the background. Compared to those onslaughts of torture, this new ever present discomfort isn’t that bad. Dean always drives too fast, but this time he’s really pushing it, wanting to get to the bar and have a couple drinks in him before the next wave hits. Alcohol had better help because if it doesn’t, he’s gonna have to shoot himself. 

Dean pulls into the parking lot of the first bar he sees, a dilapidated building that looks like it’s seen better days, but also like it gets a lot of customers, if the lack of vacant parking spaces is any giveaway. Dean finds a tight one between a gaudy Cadillac and a Prius, pulling in with ease and killing the engine. Sam reaches over to the back seat, grabbing a clean jacket to swap with the blood-stained one he’s got on now, and Cas opens his door carefully, trying not to hit the car parked next to them. Dean pulls his key out of the ignition and swings out of the Impala, shutting the door and locking it, then pockets the key. As soon as he completes the motion, he feels it coming again, his eyes blowing wide at the realization. 

The pain hits worse than a bullet burying itself into his shoulder would this time. Every inch of the inside of his body feels like it’s being torn at with razor blades. He imagines the pain is liquefying his insides and that they’re condensing into a ball that the endless knives plunge themselves into. Dean’s unable to stop himself -- he cries out in agony, knees buckling, and collapses, the pain sharpening even further with the motion. Dean wraps his arms around his middle, bent over on himself, and is gasping for breath, feeling like he can’t get any air in his lungs, because all of those razor blades are tearing them to pieces. He sees bright colors flashing behind his eyes, streaking his vision and burning after-images in it, even though his eyes are fixed on the cement inches away from his face.

“Dean!” Cas yells, jogging around to Dean’s side and grabbing protectively at Dean’s shoulders, dropping to his knees in front of the man. Almost instantaneously the pain stops getting worse, hovering at the nearly unbearable level it’s at right now. Dean chokes on his first inhalation, so desperate to fill his oxygen-starved body with air, and Cas slips a hand up to Dean’s neck once the flood of air into his lungs launches him into a coughing fit. With the addition of skin-on-skin contact, the pain seems to recede, the razor blades turning to dull knives that stop ferociously ripping him apart, cutting him methodically instead. The relief, though slight, is almost blinding, and Dean is dizzy and lightheaded from it. 

“Shit! Dean!” Sam is shouting, just now returning from his search for his jacket and running over to join them. Dean’s chest is heaving with the force of his breaths, all the blood drained from his face, one arm still wrapped around his torso as if it’ll keep him from falling apart. Dean is staring into Cas’ eyes in anguished confusion. Dean is looking at Cas like his touch is cool water to a man lost in the desert. Cas looks so deep in consideration that Sam appears afraid to say more, fearing any words might interrupt his thoughts. The pain is still fading away the longer Cas keeps his hands on Dean. Cas helps Dean to his feet, the hunter’s legs shaking, his heart still pounding in the constricting cage of his chest, a fine layer of sweat dewed on his forehead and at the back of his neck. 

Once Dean is upright, Cas retracts his hands, and as if flood gates are reopened the pain returns tenfold. Dean almost screams from the intensity of it, and Cas only just catches him before he can collapse again. “Holy shit,” Sam breathes as realization must sink in. Dean has fallen against Cas’ chest, the angel the only thing keeping him upright, and he makes no move to bear his own weight. As soon as they touch the pain disappears almost completely, the raw relief left in its wake making Dean’s head spin. He’s too weak to move and closes his eyes with a grunt as he collects himself, feeling weirdly safe with Cas’ arms around his waist.

“Dean, I believe I understand the nature of the curse the witch bestowed upon you.” Cas claims, voice sounding slightly shocked and even more empathetic, for whatever reason Dean is too exhausted to care about. “I must be touching you, having some sort of physical contact with you, or you will be in pain. It appears the longer you go without it, the worse it gets.” 

“Great,” Dean coughs feebly, pulling back from Cas to stand up on his own, now that he’s feeling fine. The pain immediately rises up inside of him, like a tiger just let out of it’s cage, ready to devour Dean from the inside out, and he doesn’t even have time to gasp before Cas is pulling him back against his body in something resembling a bear hug. Dean closes his eyes as the gravity of the situation sinks in. The witch had said something about being stubborn… about hiding the truth. Fuck. Dean’s pretty sure he knows the point to this curse, thinks he understands what the witch was trying to achieve. The hunter meets the blazing azure of Cas’ eyes, feeling his heart jump into his throat. Fuck.

“I think we should be getting back,” Sam suggests gently. Dean shakes his head, never tearing his eyes away from Cas’.  
“No, we’re staying. I need a drink. Or seven.” Dean’s definitely going to wanna have some whiskey in him if he’s going to be able to deal with the implications of this shitty curse. Its MO, the witch seeing what Dean’s been pushing down and refusing to acknowledge…. “Yeah. I definitely need a drink,” he repeats solemnly, turning away from the soft, concerned gaze Cas has on him.


	2. Apokalypsis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the one and only CrackshotKate. <3

Apokalypsis (noun): an uncovering or unveiling. 

 

***

 

Dean grits his teeth as he eyes up the entrance to the bar, the issue of how the hell they’re actually going to do this without looking like honeymooners having not really crossed his mind. No matter how much he wishes it wasn’t so, he’s forced to be touching Castiel at all times, skin-to-skin no less if he doesn’t want to be doubled over in gut-wrenching pain. Paired with the fact that everyone is going to be gawking, the idea of just getting a six pack, some top-shelf whiskey and retreating back to their motel room for a solitary bender is looking even more appealing -- Dean is too damn tired to come up with a way of explaining away their PDA. But he said he was going to a bar for a drink, so he’s damn well going to. No bitch with a Hogwarts letter’s going to stop him from drinking himself and all of his baggage under the table.

Of course, that idea is almost instantly thrown out the window when Cas reaches down and laces his fingers with Dean’s. The pain stays in its cage, lurking quietly, but the threat is always there. Dean scowls down at the entwined appendages, wishing part of him didn’t appreciate the warm contrast of soft skin and rough calluses of Cas’ hand interlaced with his own, that the contact didn’t fill him with the spreading sensation of melting honey. Something about the connection is painfully affectionate, and it sends something warm coiling in the pit of his stomach -- not at all an unpleasant feeling, though Dean is instinctively uneasy with the degree of intimacy that comes with it. He clears his throat and averts his gaze as Cas opens his mouth to speak. “I think maintaining hand contact will be sufficient to satisfy the curse for now, if you insist on remaining in public,” Cas explains himself warily, eyes full of pointless concern when Dean sneaks a glance. Unable to argue, he shrugs and grumbles about stupid fucking witches under his breath. He sure as hell doesn’t want to end up curled around Cas like a lap cat, so holding hands must be the lesser of two evils. It’s not so much that he cares about holding hands with Cas so much as he minds dealing with the unwanted attention it’s bound to attract.

“Let’s just go,” Dean grunts, aiming for apathy and missing the mark by miles. They push past the double doors and into the crowded bar, the sound of talking and laughter making Dean feel a little better but painfully more self conscious that they’re walking in like third grade sweethearts. Dean shifts his body to keep their entangled hands behind him, a little more out of sight, but it doesn’t really help. Dean feels his cheeks heating up from the rush of blood to them and wants to duck his head and avert his eyes. He was wrong. So, so wrong. This is beyond the seventh circle of Hades; he’s pretty sure everyone is staring at him and can see right through his indignant facade, and all Dean wants is to crawl into a hole and die. Sam slides into a booth seat and Dean and Cas sit across from him. Dean immediately shoves his and Cas’ joined hands under the table, resting them between his and Cas’ thigh. 

Is it just Dean or is Cas sitting really close? Dean feels the blush on his face deepen and buries his face in a menu, pissed that he’s reacting so strongly. He desperately tries to grasp at his default ‘not a single fuck is given’ attitude, but returning to factory settings is easier said than done, especially when Castiel brushes the back of Dean’s hand with his thumb. A waiter eventually turns up -- a young guy probably in his early twenties with full sleeves of tattoos visible beneath his tank top -- and poises his pen over his notepad, ready to take their orders. “What’ll it be, fellas?” he asks, looking up from the notepad just long enough to probably see Dean looking like he’s about to throw up, maybe spontaneously combust into flames.   
“A beer for me,” Sam says, glancing over at them expectantly. The waiter scribbles it down, then prompts Dean and Cas with a nod. Dean’s edgy enough that he stutters, feeling the overwhelming desire to punch himself in the face.  
“Uh, I-I’ll have the same.” Dean looks over at Cas’ contemplative expression, fixed curiously on Dean, and his mortifyingly scarlet cheeks deepen a shade. “He’s fine, leave it at that.” Dean grunts, wanting the waiter to leave and come back with his damn beer already. The man writes it down, giving Dean a slightly weird look, and then disappears back to the bar.

Dean resists the urge to sigh in relief, but it’s short lived when he catches the overt looks two burly bikers are throwing him from across the bar. They’re both clad in black leather with patches on their jackets, greasy hair pulled back into pony tails of varying lengths, with the forms of someone who's been spending too much time on bar stools and not enough on a treadmill. They’re eyeing him up with deprecating amusement, not even bothering to hide the fact that they’re staring at the secretive way Cas and Dean’s hands are held under the table. A cat call from the one with a beard pushes Dean from uncomfortable and irritated to pissed off in just seconds. 

Dean turns and shoots his signature eat-shit glare at them, trying to stop himself from internally freaking out. He’s getting more and more riled up the longer they keep their eyes on him and laugh to themselves. Dean’s blood is boiling -- he’s not about to just sit there while they talk shit about him. Dean Winchester takes shit from no man, be them angel, demon, or biker douchebag. He angrily unclasps his hand from Cas’, but Cas still holds on, not releasing his grip. Dean turns to glare at the angel, not even comforted by the earnest eyes staring back. “Let go, Cas. I gotta talk to those assholes over there,” he says, indicating towards them with a jerk of his head.   
“I can’t let go, Dean, or you will be in pain.” Cas argues, squinting in irritating obliviousness at the mockery Dean and him are on the receiving end of.  
“Seriously, Dean, just ignore them,” Sam adds, annoying peacemaker he is.

Dean huffs angrily, his barely bottled rage going up a notch. He’s stuck there holding Cas’ hand like a dumbass when he should be getting his anger out on the two dickhead bikers, and Cas staring at him like he’s grown a second head isn’t helping. Dean decides to take matters into his own hands, and turns towards the men with a sneer. “Hey! Why don’t you make kissy faces at each other instead of eyeballing my man?” Dean shouts to them from across the bar. His provocative words hit their mark; the men abandon their seats and swagger over, jaws set. Dean angles his body to face them, unconsciously squaring his shoulders and jutting his chin up defiantly. Dean Winchester is the one sonovabitch you should never start shit with, especially on a day he’s botched a witch hunt. He opens his mouth for a cocky one-liner but the guy with the scruffy beard beats him to it. “What did you just say?” He spits, his voice sounding like the product of a lifetime of smoking. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up at the blatantly threatening undertones, feeling indignance and fury wash through him, like acid in his veins.

“I said, keep your eyes to yourself, pal. Why don’t you go sit back down and mind your own damn business?” Dean’s voice is low and authoritative, a tone that he’s perfected over the years. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam looking alarmed, and knows his little brother is probably internally cursing him for making a scene. Whatever. Dean didn’t start it, but he sure as hell will end it. The bearded man’s sidekick raises an eyebrow, expression going to deadly serious in a heartbeat. The other mirrors him and Dean wants to snort derisively. The larger of the two, the one with the mangy beard, leans over their table, ignoring Sam’s placating apologies on Dean’s behalf and slams a meaty hand against the table, nose inches away from Dean’s. Dean absolutely refuses to back down, just matches the stare coolly. 

The man’s breath is hot and rancid with beer in Dean’s face as he speaks. “Was that an order, boy?” he growls, the rumbling of the words rubbing Dean in all the wrong ways.  
“Yeah, actually,” Dean’s replies, unwavering. The biker doesn’t hesitate to ball his fist in the fabric of Dean’s flannel, right at his throat, and tug his face closer, so close Dean can see the individual red veins in his bloodshot eyes.   
“Why don’t you fucking make me?”   
Dean shrugs blithely, aware of the arrogance in the gesture. “Okay.”   
“Dean!” Sam hisses, eyes wide. Dean ignores him, but he can’t ignore the insistent squeeze Cas’ hand gives his. Even in the riled up state Dean is in, the motion doesn’t fail to make a certain brand of warmth -- much more pleasant than that of the rage-fueled flames -- spark inside him. The heated spark of sensation draws him up short, his trail of thought derailed and the man fisting his shirt is forgotten when he catches Castiel’s worried blue eyes.   
“Dean--” Cas doesn’t even get a chance to finish before Dean is being bodily yanked out of his seat by the death grip on his shirt, his hand wrenched away from Cas’. 

Dean makes an outraged sound of protest and finds his footing, pulling his elbow back and letting his fist snap forward, driving into the biker’s face with accuracy and calculated momentum. The man’s jaw makes a hollow popping sound and then he’s roaring in pain, slamming a blind punch at Dean’s stomach, which he agilely dodges. He’s about to go in for another hit when he feels the increasingly all too familiar crippling pain engulfing his entire body as he wretches. The hand he clasps over his mouth comes away slick with blood and the coppery taste of it is thick in his throat. Dean’s in too much pain to care about the strangled cry tumbling out of his lips as he crumples and sinks unsteadily to his knees. 

His eyes are blurring with a swarm of black dots eating at his vision but through the haze, he makes out the triumphant figure of the man he’d just punched. He’s sauntering up to him, face contorted into a mask of confusion upon seeing Dean on the floor even though the man hadn’t got a hit in yet. Still, he makes a move to get a few dirty shots in, lifting his leg back as he gets ready to kick Dean’s prone figure, and Dean flinches in preparation for the impact. But suddenly Cas is in front of him, his stance distinctly protective, shielding the hunter with his body. The angel raises a hand, index and middle finger extended, and presses them against the oncoming man’s forehead, who collapses instantly, unconscious, sprawling out unceremoniously on the floor right in front of Dean. His friend looks furious at the way Cas took the guy out with only a touch and he charges, his just under three hundred pound mass coming right at Cas. Dean is able to spare a thought that he’s glad he isn’t that guy right now as he struggles for breath. His thoughts are torn away from him as another wave of agony bears down, leaving him clutching at his midsection. 

“Dean,” Cas’ voice comes, low and urgent, crouching down in front of the hunter and spinning on his heels to face him. Dean is choking, his lungs all but dysfunctional, and his eyes can barely focus in on the concern burning in Cas’ eyes. The angel grabs Dean’s hand in his own, and with his free hand, he reaches up to cradle the side of Dean’s face, palm curved to cup his cheekbones. The invisible grip on his airway releases and oxygen floods into his lungs in torrents. The rush of agony leaving his body, replaced by an encompassing warmth, like aloe vera on a sunburn, leaves him gasping like a drowning man, and if it weren’t for Cas propping him up he’d have fallen flat on his face. Fuck, he wheezes, his body can’t take much more of this. 

Dean’s still fighting to regain his breath, but he has no idea what he would have said if he had the air to speak. Cas grabs one of Dean’s hands and coils an arm snugly around his waist, helping him to his feet, then releases the arm supporting Dean’s midsection in favor of replacing his hand against Dean’s cheek. Dean staggers as he tries to stand straight, joints weak from the whiplash change from agony to euphoria. Over Cas’ shoulder, Dean sees Sam throwing a wad of crumpled up bills onto the table and grabbing his jacket and wallet, eager to make a run for it before the police show up. Their little brawl had attracted the attention of the entire bar; everyone is leering at the two unconscious bikers on the ground, and the guys hugging it out as they limp towards the door.

“We gotta run,” Sam instructs, ducking his head and making a beeline for the door. Cas raises his other hand to Dean’s jaw, cradling the hunter’s face in his hands, and just stares. Dean feels like the angel’s gaze is penetrating all the way down to his soul, and the tenderness evident in his eyes draws him in like a moth to a flame. Dean’s too full of the heady sensations resulting from the absence of pain and the addition of Cas’ skin on his to feel uncomfortable with the poignancy of it all.   
“We should be leaving, Dean,” Cas says, breaking Dean out of his stupor.   
“Yeah, okay,” Dean replies, attention once again returned to their audience. Castiel laces his fingers one at a time with Dean’s, making sure he’s anchoring him through the touch at all times, and the two dart out of the bar, escaping the prying eyes all around them. Sam is waiting impatiently next to his side of the Impala, and Dean tosses him the keys and nods to the driver’s side, a silent gesture to start the car and wait for him. Sam gives the two of them an assessing look and nods, leaning over the bench seat to start the engine and wait in his designated shotgun spot. 

With Sam sufficiently distracted, Dean’s emotions come pouring out as he snaps. With the delicate sentimentality of the moment long gone, Dean’s more shitty feelings come flooding back in a nasty mess. He yanks his hand out of Cas and takes a few deliberate steps back, arms akimbo, and tries to ignore the pang that goes through him not from the pain, but from Cas’ look of dejection only visible in the tightening of his eyes, the emotion just a flash that Dean can’t help but catch. God, he cannot stand this shitty curse and all its shitty side effects. “You know what, this fucking sucks! Fucking witches!” Dean growls sharply, turning to the familiarity of anger as a deflection.

“I want to be able to tell some assholes to back the fuck off without being paralyzed with fucking pain! What the fuck kind of curse is this? What does she want with me? I should’ve ganked the bitch, dammit! Now look what I’m having to deal with!” Dean’s voice gets louder and he’s red in the face from ranting, fists balled up, chest rising and falling rapidly with the fervency of his spiel. Cas just blinks at him, only a glimmer of concern in his eyes. The angel is keeping his face carefully devoid of emotions, and upon recognizing it, Dean’s anger is set off once again. “I don’t fucking need this! Witches fucking with my head! I swear, when I find her, I’m going to beat the everloving crap out of her until she reverses this damn curse!” Dean’s gesturing violently at nothing, livid and upset. “This is so fucking unfair!”

A few beats of silence pass with the two just looking at each other, Cas absorbing every word, just watching calmly as Dean loses his shit. Dean’s fingers twitch frantically -- he needs something physical to do, needs a way to expend all the pent up energy so many shitty emotions have caused him, and he wishes more than anything he could spend it on ganking himself a witch. Dean feels himself start to get even more pissed off the longer Cas stays quiet, and he’s about to lay into the angel when Cas’ solemn words shatter the tension-laden silence. “I’m sorry, Dean, truly, I am. I understand this threatens your independence. I don’t however understand why you’re so adverse to me helping you. No, the situation is neither desirable nor ideal, but you are my closest companion.” Cas’ eyes are starting to look eerily reminiscent of Sam’s signature puppy look. “To be able to comfort you and console you when you need it, to relieve you of your pain, that is the greatest of privileges. I am glad to do it. I won’t deny that I find the proximity to you a reward in itself, either.” 

All the fight, all the rage and frustration is knocked out of Dean at the declaration. Castiel says it like it’s both nothing and everything all at once. The genuine, wholehearted matter-of-factness stuns Dean. He’s replaying the words in his head, reveling in them. His thundercloud thoughts clear away, for the first time just allowing him to hear these words and understand. For just a moment, Cas has managed to kick down every defense Dean’s consciously put up. Vulnerable self bared to Cas without the protective shell, Dean forgets his inhibitions, swallowing audibly. “I… I like it too.”

The tenderness of the moment is ruined however by Dean collapsing to the ground, struck by the sudden surge of mind-numbing pain obliterating him from the inside out. He vaguely hears his name called in alarm, and then there’s nothing as consciousness is ripped from his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more part guys!! :) Let me know what you think of this so far!! The last chapter is going to have a shit ton of cuddling, I promise you, just hang in there XD thanks for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! <3
> 
> For Maya (Destieltentylerjohnlockian) for our Broniversary!!! I love you. That is all because you don't like me saying sappy things XD You can read everything else I sent you for that ;)


	3. Aeipathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely CrackshotKate who has done an amazing job whipping my work into publishing shape and has been an even better friend <3

Aeipathy (noun): An enduring and consuming passion.

 

 

 

Dean comes to sprawled out on top of a hard mattress, just like every other morning at the crack of dawn, but something’s off, and the realization has him quickly cracking open his eyes, blinking away the haze of sleep. He can sense Cas’ presence on the bed beside him, the intensity of the gaze he feels boring into his skull already making him uncomfortable, and he’s only been conscious for thirty damn seconds. Belatedly he realizes that the angel has one of Dean’s hands enclosed tightly in his. It’s startlingly intimate to the hunter; Dean’s far from unfamiliar with sins of the flesh, as it were, but no one night stand ever left him feeling so… vulnerable. Dean’s entire being seems centered around the one point of contact, where Cas’ hands are enveloping his own. Every cell touching Cas’ skin feels bathed in wonderful golden light, shrouded in layers of pleasure that radiate up Dean’s wrist and tingle up his arm. The hunter has never felt anything like this, to be anchored to earth by such a glorious, exhilarating warmth. He feels dizzy with the deliciousness of just this alone, and can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if his whole body could be encompassed in the otherworldly sensation.

“Dean?” Cas’ gravelly voice rasps, like a bottomless ocean Dean wants to throw himself into.

“Mmm,” Dean responds, opening his eyes just enough so he can see Cas sitting cross-legged beside him, peering through hooded lids up at the angel gazing down at him with compassionate eyes. The visceral big brother instinct kicks in, always looking out for Sammy at all times, even within seconds of Dean regaining consciousness. “Wait! Where’s Sam? Sam!” Dean calls for his brother, straining to sit up against the pillows and look around the room.

“Relax, Dean. Sam is hunting the witch right now. He has it under control.” Cas calms him. He nods, relief washing through him, and is about to say something when Cas continues. “I have been theorizing on how to more effectively alleviate your discomfort,” Cas starts, squeezing Dean’s hand gently. The result is even more of those tingles shooting all the way up Dean’s arm to his shoulder, and he can’t help but wrap his fingers more tightly around Cas’ in return.

“Yeah? What’ve you got?” Dean prompts him, blinking blearily. He’d be great to go back to sleep right now, with Cas’ hands on his own, keeping the pain away. The fleeting image of him snuggling up to Cas sparks into his mind and he can’t deny the onrush of want he feels, the longing he’s always so meticulously ignoring to be close to the angel.

“It seems the more contact we have the less pain you’re in, so it seems more logical for me to lay beside you, thereby increasing the surface area. Could I lay beside you, Dean?” Cas asks. Dean’s eyes widen in response, and he swallows thickly, trying to silence the overenthusiastic agreement in his head. There is a problem with Cas’ theory, one element he’s missing that Dean’s already picked up on.

“Pretty sure it’s gotta be skin on skin, Cas. I don’t think any PG-13 over-the-sheets squeeze is gonna cut it,” Dean comments, wondering why the hell he’s blushing. Why does this whole damn curse have to be so suggestive?

“Ah, I suppose that does make sense. When I brought you here with a hand on your shoulder you were still writhing in pain, but when I held your hand, you instantly stilled. I believe you’re right, Dean,” Cas says solemnly, but there’s still that undertone of warmth -- affection? -- Dean doesn’t fail to catch. After so many years, he’s keen on picking up every tonal inflection, every twitch of a facial expression, each of Castiel’s selectively chosen words. “So should I try and maximize skin to skin contact?” Cas questions. Dean flushes, heaving his tired body into a somewhat sitting position, where he’s propped up on his elbows and his head is tipped back to look at Cas. The sunlight streaming through the slats in the blinds hurts Dean’s ill-adjusted eyes, and he just wants to curl up beside Cas and sleep, no matter how much he might regret it in the morning.

“Whoa whoa whoa, Bear Grylls, this ain’t the arctic. No one’s stripping down and cuddling here. This is just fine,” Dean says slowly, holding up their entwined hands for emphasis. Cas frowns, cocking his head to the side.

“But Dean, it would make you feel better,” Cas argues, obviously bewildered as to why Dean finds it so unacceptable. Dean sighs, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“You don’t get it, Cas,” Dean sighs, the words sounding far more weary than he’d expected. He’s not into all this introspective shit, but now he’s stuck trying to figure out what the real problem is here, trying to find a valid excuse. When it comes down to it, Dean really isn’t opposed. In fact, it’s pretty much all he wants, and that’s not just the curse talking. For so many years, he’s been denying how much he’s pined for Cas’ touch, for his affection, for the angel to see him not just as a pitiful human fuck up, but as a partner, someone who’d fight for him because he means so damn much. He doesn’t just need Cas around to smite demons when he’s in a sticky situation, he needs him because he makes Dean feel... loved. He internally cringes at the unspeakable word, feeling a weight slip back onto his shoulders, one so familiar because he’s been carrying it for as long as he could remember.

Of course he needs Cas. He needs his protection, he needs his encouragement, he needs his barely-there smiles and his silent vow of unswerving devotion and loyalty. That part’s obvious, and Dean feels like the dumbest person to ever walk the planet when he considers how he’s just now noticing it, this plain-as-day fact. But Cas doesn’t need Dean, and that’s the true problem there. Not like Dean needs him, that is. Sure, Cas has had some rough spots where he wouldn’t have made it without the help of the Winchesters, but Dean’s doubtful Cas needs him emotionally. What the fuck is he even thinking? He doesn’t deserve someone like Cas, a fucking Angel of the Lord, whose only intention is to sacrifice himself in aid of Dean -- impure, guilt-ridden, selfish, wracked with self-loathing and sin after sin Dean. Who cares if he wants to touch Cas, to kiss him, to belong to him? It doesn’t matter, because the hunter is sure as hell he’ll never deserve any of that.

“Just because, Cas,” Dean answers quietly, closing his eyes and slumping back down onto the mattress. He really wants the bed to swallow him up so he doesn’t have to see the puzzlement in Cas’ too-blue eyes.

“Dean, you are a terrible liar -- I can see into your soul. Why will you not allow me to do this for you? I already clarified  that I desire to,” Cas says softly. Dean’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest, and with a scowl he looks away.

“Fine then, do it if you have to!” Dean snaps, snatching his hand away in frustration, getting real sick of all the stupid emotions clouding his judgement. He rolls over onto his stomach so he can hide his face in the pillows, not trusting his body to hide the inner turmoil within him. A brief pause, and then Cas’ hand is pressing right between his shoulder blades, palm splayed flat. A second passes, and then Dean’s shirt is gone, leaving Cas’ hand on his burning skin. He moans at the heady sensation of simultaneous relief and pleasure that bombards each inch of flesh pressed against Cas’ with a tidal wave of euphoria. A breathless groan escapes Dean’s lips and he mashes them together to keep another one from following as Cas starts massaging his back.

The angel’s touch is inhumanly strong but still gentle and reverent, as if Dean is something precious and fragile. Castiel is pressing in all the right places, kneading at the tense muscles until they turn limp and yielding to Cas’ firm fingers. Dean has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making some surely pornographic sounds. He’s seeing stars from the gratification of it, disbelieving that this enjoyment can even be real, let alone something he of all people should receive. Cas’ hands are roving all over his bare back, the thrill of skin to skin contact blowing Dean’s mind, and he swears he would sell his soul again if he could just stay here for his rightful ten years.

Another touch and Dean’s jeans have disappeared, just as Cas lies down beside him and pulls him into his arms. Dean realizes this somehow outside of his own blissed-out wonderland, and he’s about to object, when Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and pulls the hunter flush up against the length of his body. Dean’s protest is blown to pieces when his entire fucking front is pressed against Cas’ equally bare skin, and it’s like his brain has imploded from the sheer ecstasy. His eyes roll back into his head and his body goes completely limp in the strong cradle of Cas’ arms, body melting against the muscular planes of his chest and conforming to each line and ridge. There are so many points of contact vying for Dean’s attention, and he can’t focus on any one for more than a couple seconds before another demands his interest.

Like the soft insides of Cas’ thighs against his own as the angel tangles their legs, hooking their ankles together so even the press of bone on bone down there feels better than the best orgasm Dean’s ever had. And Cas’ hands rubbing at the dimples at the bottom of Dean’s spine, relieving the tension in muscles Dean didn’t even know he had. “Relax, Dean,” Cas commands quietly as he draws his hands up Dean’s back to rub gloriously at the muscles in Dean’s stiff shoulders. It feels so good, how can Dean even think of pulling away? He goes with a reluctant mind but an all too willing body, grumbling under his breath as he snuggles his face into Cas’ chest. It feels like warm silk sliding over the light stubble on his jaw and cheek, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has to stop himself from moaning again.

Dean’s body is moving on its own accord out of acute need, burrowing him closer into the refuge of Cas’ touch. It feels oh so good, better than anything ever, but Dean’s disgusted with himself. He’s wanted this for so long on a subconscious level, but he hates that he’s getting it like this, Castiel acting on a twisted sense of duty. Cas’ fingers run through Dean’s hair, leaving luxurious trails of sensation over the hunter’s scalp, and he wants to whine when the angel stops.

“Dean, I can feel the reluctance and discontent rolling off of you in waves. What’s wrong?” Cas sounds so confused, voice so pinched with anxious worry, it breaks Dean’s heart. “Your body needs this, why are you so adamantly against allowing yourself to enjoy the relief?”

Dean takes a steadying breath, gritting his teeth. “Because, Cas! I don’t want you to feel you have to do this because of some fucking curse! I want you to...to want to. To want me,” Dean chokes out, wincing at how horribly pitiful and vulnerable he’s made himself with a few words. A terrifying beat of silence passes, and Dean can almost hear the disgust reeling through Cas’ mind. Oh man, he’s screwed everything up. Fucking witch, this is all her fault. When Cas speaks, his voice is weirdly soft, almost like Cas can see the whole picture but can’t quite fit the last puzzle piece. He sounds contemplative, but his touches are still unbearably sweet and adoring. It tears a hole in Dean’s chest as he listens.

“I haven’t forgotten what the witch said when she cursed you, Dean. She said you would make you learn from her partner’s mistakes, which, by using context clues, were most likely not displaying affection. She said you were being stubborn, to stop ‘pushing away the truth’, or you would die. I was trying so hard to understand how I was involved, when the curse was obviously centered around you admitting the truth, and I’ve been wondering... is this what you’ve been keeping from me, Dean?” Cas asks.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut in distress. “I dunno, I guess. I have… feelings...for you, okay? And it wasn’t you I was lying to.” Dean takes another deep breath and meets Cas’ compassionate eyes. “It was myself.” God, how Dean has been avoiding the truth like he was running for his life.

“Why, Dean? Why is it so hard for you to come to grips with? I’ve always felt deep affection for you. Ever since our bond was forged when I raised you from Hell, I’ve cared for you on a level that is far above anything I’ve felt for anyone else in all my millennia of existence. What I feel for you… I suppose you would call it ‘love’?” The world is narrowed down to just Cas, and everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion, like the movies do during some important action scene. “I love you, Dean, and if you’re worried about me not reciprocating your feelings, let me tell you how unfounded those concerns are.” Dean gapes, positively shocked, his heart swelling with endearment and triumph and the most wonderful feeling of being truly wanted. He had no fucking idea Cas felt like this -- wouldn’t have guessed in a thousand years -- and now he’s being told everything he’s ever wanted is his? Surely everything about this is too good to be true. Dean doesn’t just get what he wants; the universe always finds a way to screw him over.

And he thinks he’s figured it out. “But Cas,” Dean begins, feeling awkward but determined to get it out, just this once, “I’m no good for you,” he emphasizes slowly, trying to communicate his point with his tone and not his poorly articulated words. “I’m so screwed up, and everyone I love gets hurt -- I mean, just look at Sammy -- and my soul is tainted, don’t you get it? It’s wrecked and filthy after all the shit I’ve done. I don’t even deserve to be alive, Cas, let alone to have you.” Cas’ reaction stuns Dean. The angel looks instantly extremely pissed off, with his jaw clenched and eyes blazing with righteous fire. “Dean Winchester,” Castiel growls, irises so ethereal blue Dean swears he can see a glimmer of Cas’ true being behind them, “You are completely wrong. Your view of yourself is subverted and deranged. I can see your soul every time I look at you, and believe me when I say it’s something no one else has ever come near to possessing. It is not damaged, Dean. Your soul is the very essence of who you are, and nothing could tarnish that, not your self-loathing nor your guilt.

“Never before have I seen a soul with such an immense amount of love to give. Your very being radiates with selflessness, compassion and honor, how you are noble and compassionate; the way you’re willing to go to impossible lengths for those you care for is truly astounding, Dean.” Dean’s heart is pounding in his chest as he listens raptly. “Nothing can deter the depth and completeness of your adoration, and Sam is a living, breathing testament to that. So many things could have separated you, but even now, your relationship remains stronger than any other brotherly bond, all because the intensity with which you love him is invincible. And Sam is not the only one your soul is protective of, nor the only recipient of its outpouring devotion.” Cas finishes, with a quiet, almost reverent air to his words.

“You. It’s you,” Dean chokes out, closing his eyes against the foreboding sting in his tear ducts. When he opens them again, Cas’ are just inches away, peering at him as if he can see deep down into Dean’s core.

“My Grace will always seek your soul, Dean. It would be an honor to bond my Grace with it permanently, if that’s something you’re amenable to.” Cas concludes, sincerity ringing in each syllable. Dean buries his face in Cas’ neck, overwhelmed with the abundance of emotion, that for once, lifts him up rather than tearing him down. He’s having trouble finding the words to respond, but Cas just cups the back of Dean’s head in his palms, and kisses the top of his head with incredible tenderness. “You don’t have to say anything, I can see more than enough.” Cas chuckles warmly. “Now please let me take care of you -- not just because you deserve it, but because I want to.” By way of answer, Dean curls his body around Cas’, angling himself so he can nuzzle his face at the nape of Cas’ neck, and just luxuriates in the bodily pleasure he feels and the even greater ecstasy of knowing he is loved.

For a wavelength of celestial intent, Cas really knows how to snuggle. Dean never allows himself to cuddle, mostly because he never feels the desire to, and now it’s like that whole lifetime of affection deprivation is rushing to the surface. Cas adjusts their positions so Dean is on top, trying to make the most of the skin to skin contact. Dean coils one arm around Cas’ waist, the other pinned underneath him, and slots their legs perfectly together. One of his lean-muscled arms holds Dean tight to him, while the other cards through his hair, scritching at his scalp. The hunter would be content just to lie here forever, wrapped in layer upon layer of sheer, unadulterated bliss, knowing he can’t fall apart if his angel is here to hold him together. Dean decides when and if they ever find that witch lady, he might just thank her before he shoots her full of poppy seed.

Castiel is safe and familiar against Dean, and he is feeling so small, so very human and fragile curled up against the angel’s chest like this. He wants to snug them both up and hide away from the world until time stands still. The angel’s lips are just a few inches away, slightly chapped and parted. It suddenly occurs to the hunter not only how good kissing would feel with this curse, but especially how much he wants to kiss Castiel. Dean unhesitantly seals them with his own, and is immediately floored by the exhilarating rush of elation the touch produces. And if that wasn’t enough, soon Cas is responding, his lips rising and dipping against his beloved’s; unpracticed but eager, and Dean doesn’t even try to stop the moan that tumbles from him and into his partner’s hot mouth. Cas’ hands come up to cradle either side of Dean’s face and his body is nearly vibrating with untamed euphoria, kissing his angel back passionately.

Eventually Cas pulls away, leaving Dean gasping for air. He feels it, too, feels something foreign in him shifting and changing, releasing its grip on him. To the hunter’s surprise, Castiel looks alarmed and worried. “Dean! Your heart rate is increasing at an alarmingly rapid rate. Is it the curse? Are you in pain?” Cas says anxiously, concerned eyes traversing Dean’s face for any sign of discomfort. Cas moves away to examine Dean, letting go of the hunter, but there is no change in his condition; no agonizing pain, no razors in his gut. Cas notices this just as he does, and the angel breaks into a breathtaking smile.

“It doesn’t hurt!” Dean crows, beaming at Cas, giddy with relief as he feels the last of it evaporate into nothing, leaving him feeling light and remarkable.

“True love’s kiss,” Dean laughs breathlessly, kissing the words against Cas’ lips. “Broke the curse and saved the day.” He’s too delirious with the thrill of ecstasy of being near Cas, paired with the absence of pain, to be embarrassed by the cliche Disney resolution. Cas just goes with it, surely missing the reference, and kisses his hunter back with renewed fervor. Dean scoots back over and wraps his arms around Cas.

“So the cuddling is no longer required?” Cas asks when Dean breaks away for breath. He shakes his head, but makes no move to let go, only more deeply entangling himself with his angel.

“It’s not required, but I sure as hell don’t wanna stop,” Dean proclaims. Cas’ alluring eyes are alight with affection, and he too holds Dean closer.

“Cuddling with you pleases me, Dean. I don’t wish to stop either.” Cas replies, voice playful. Dean kisses the edge of his jaw, the part of him closest to his mouth at the moment. His lips are stretched wide with the smile on them.

“Well fuck curses. I don’t need a curse to make me cuddle you.”

“And neither do I,” Cas proclaims, once again sealing Dean’s lips with his own.

****

<http://brodestieltentylerjohnlockian.tumblr.com/post/126697197395/i-made-a-few-more-lazy-drawings-xd-sammy-aka>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you like I love making Dean pass out. Seriously, I don't think I've written a fic where I haven't knocked him out, lol. But you guys are wonderful and I am so thankful for your support and feedback, and especially for you reading! <3
> 
> The link is to the art for the fic, made by my talented best friend Maya (Destieltentylerjohnlockian of AO3)! It's quite lovely, so I recommend you go check it out since I can't figure out how to embed the image in the actual fic, lol.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading guys!! :) I'd love to hear what you think, and kudos are the best!! :) <3 There will be two more parts to follow this one!


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